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The Existential Compost

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3rd June 2015

[sticky post] Always open to new Friends! (with occasional intimate filtered bits) @ 15:15

For the really juicy intimate bits you'll probably need to add me as a friend and get to know me. But for the external veneer you don't need to add me. However, if you would like me to add you, please leave a comment and I'll consider additions.
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7th December 2016

Everyday? @ 07:17

Tags:

Do you really wish it was Christmas every day?

Personally, I can't think of a worse kind of hell.

a) Food

no title With nothing but prawn cocktail, roast dinner and decadent luxurious pudding to eat and mountains of chocolate and luxurious comestibles to dine on, no doubt we would become rotund within no time putting our health at risk and making us hideously overweight, prone to diabetes and heart disease. Furthermore, the copious amounts of booze we would imbibe would no doubt result in some sort of liver failure or sclerosis. Within a month of Christmases, we would be in pain induced by constipation, gall and kidney stones and the agony of a dying liver.


b) Lack of shops

Don't be thinking, well that's ok, I'll just nip to the corner shop and stock up on their goods. This would be fine for a while until they run out of stock (no deliveries), but I challenge anyone to remain alive and healthy after a month of Ginster’s pasties, Frey Bentos pies and Happy Shopper digestives. Not only that, I imagine many would eventually get pissed off with receiving Blue Hallmark label CDs, water pistols and boxes of stale Matchmakers as presents.

c) Deliveries

With most intercontinental trade and passenger routes into and out of the UK on minimal, eventually, imports would dry up. Many truck drivers would be unable to deliver goods and warehouses filled with food and other goods would just fill with dust and rodents as pick and pack staff would be off work.

d) Snow

3sprouts.pngEveryone wants a perfect Christmas and of course what would be more perfect than a white Christmas. If it snows it's cold and if the council gritters and workers are off work because it's Christmas, there would be nobody to clear the mountains of snow as they build up over eternal Christmases. With everyone burning fuel to keep warm because of the snow and subsisting on diets of sprouts, protein and cabbage, greenhouse gases would plume, eventually causing a runaway greenhouse effect. However, this assumes that people's homes are powered by natural gas automatically pumped in from the North Sea and Russia and electricity provided by nuclear and renewable sources. Those people energy dependent on fossil fuels like oil and coal would eventually reach a point where, due to a lack of miners and oil rig workers, fuel would run out.



e) Eventual economic collapse

With only corner shops, some pubs and 24hr garages remaining open, people unable to get to work because of close down and an indefinite period of non-work, eventually funds would dry up. The wealthy would be the corner shop and mini-mart owners and those rostered to work over the festive period. The poor would be those who initially ignorantly strive to maintain the enforced period of consumerism. Even then, as their money dries up because of banks being closed, the economy would eventually start to collapse. Overworked medical workers would struggle to cope with the continuing growth of people with obesity-related health issues, riots would begin and an overworked skeleton staff of police and military would struggle to maintain order.

So no…I don’t wish it was Christmas every day…
 

1st December 2016

Oversaturation @ 22:01

Today the warehouse radio asked me if I was hanging out my stocking on the wall.Worried I'd fallen through a hole in time, I looked at the date on my phone and saw it was still only the first day of December.
I'm already tired of Christmas.

I think festive lethargy set in some time in the middle of November after the fourth repeated showing of the much anticipated traditional John Lewis commercial. Or it could have been after reading the third local newspaper advertising-press-release-disguised-as-news article about the impending visitation of the Coca-cola lorries. Or it could also have been due to some of my over excited younger work colleagues who have been itching to put up the office Christmas decorations since after Halloween. Whatever the cause, I'm tired of it all.


I find it difficult to pinpoint when this annual festive anti-sentiment began. Was it in my twenties when I began to realise the true horrendous cost of the period? Or was it when my annual run-up to the big day became less active? I don't know.
Until recently, the days running up to Christmas was an endless parade of drink, food and parties with friends. Excitement used to well up at the prospect of entertaining friends and family, preparing food and sitting in cosy warm rooms after being in the cold. One by one these elements became jaded and tarnished. Like waiting to eat a delicious cake, hearing everyone talking about how delicious it is without tasting it, hearing about others who have sneaked a piece of the cake while everyone else has to wait for it to be ready and eventually getting the cake only to be disappointed by how flavourless and bland it is, but hey, it's still cake.
Moreover, it seems like the commercial run up to Christmas starts just after Easter with the commercial publicity of next years holidays start while the turkey is still defrosting. Perhaps it is the over commercialisation of Christmas that has ruined the season for me.
When I was younger, the season seemed to only begin around the 17th. Perhaps it was because of the perceived shame of putting decorations up too early. Yet, in early-November this year, I witnessed a house in one of the less salubrious areas of Daventry bedecked with more illuminations than Blackpool's Golden Mile, a sight unseen in my youth.  Even the supermarkets began their relentless Christmas onslaught early. Offers on festive cheeses and other perishables abound without the slightest thought of the shelf life. Who are these people who are so beyond excitement for the season that they have to cram their cupboards and fridges with  Christmas themed goods in November?
Beyond this astoundment afflicting me, I ponder on the fragility of these times. Maybe next Christmas the Conservative government, so intent on the reversion of society to Major's Victorian Values, will manage to convert the working classes back to cloth capped slum dwelling individuals and families will huddle around a candle trying to keep warm while thinking about those hedonistic days of the post-war years. Or perhaps the world powers will begin their overdue populace thinning through war, disease or famine and the fortunate will be in their underground shelters looking back at these times with tear filled eyes. But all the while I will be trying to restrain myself from joining the many in the oversaturation of Christmas.
 

28th November 2016

Autumn II - Another Poem by Stegzy Gnomepants Aged 42 5/6'ths @ 21:54

Tags:

Golden leaves litter the street
A flaky carpet
Hiding the earth and logs
Beneath a blanket of decay
A wind caught leaf
Alighting on my car bonnet
Settling
What final destination for you?
Crooked and torn
Once green and vibrant
Now yellow and tan
Like all things
Empires, buildings
Edifices and Kings
One last hurrah
Nature's extravagance
 

22nd October 2016

Poll @ 10:23

The telephone rings, but before you can answer it there is hurried knocking at your front door. What do you do first?

Answer the phone
0(0.0%)
Answer the door
2(18.2%)
Run into the bathroom and lock the door
0(0.0%)
Hide under the table
1(9.1%)
Ignore both
0(0.0%)
Attempt to answer both at the same time
5(45.5%)
Wonder why you have a phone
0(0.0%)
Wonder why you have a door
0(0.0%)
I am allergic to answering things
0(0.0%)
Answering things is against my religion
0(0.0%)
What is a door?
0(0.0%)
What is a phone?
0(0.0%)
I am uncertain about existence and would like to know more
0(0.0%)
Other (which I will explain in comments)
1(9.1%)
Other (which I will tantalisingly tick but then not explain in comments)
0(0.0%)
Other (which I will click but leave a cryptic message in comments)
0(0.0%)
I wish this was Facebook
0(0.0%)
My attention span is too short for this poll
0(0.0%)
I lack imagination
0(0.0%)
Hollow out a baked potato, mix spoil with cooked bacon, onion and cheese. Stuff back into potato. Bake in oven for about 20 mins.
2(18.2%)
 

6th September 2016

An open letter to sticky toffee pudding with hot custard @ 22:10

Current Grassiness: hungry hungry
Current sounds: Air - Dirty Trip | Powered by Last.fm

Dear Sticky Toffee Pudding with Hot Custard,

I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry I can't eat you at the moment. You've been calling me for two weeks now. Quiet at first. Almost a whisper. Maybe once a day. Now you're calling me every hour. Sometimes several times an hour. Unfortunately, we can never be as one. Well not at the moment.

I know we've had meetings several times in the past and they were fun. We had so much fun. The pleasure you gave me. The satisfaction of spoonsful of your hot creamy goodness being ladled into my mouth. The feeling of your moist, sweet and sticky sponginess on my tongue making me groan in adoration and delight. But no more. At least not for now.

We must wait. Wait for the time to be right to recreate our union. For now, I must share moments like those we once did, however fleeting, with two chocolate hobnobs and 10 salt crackers washed down with a hot cup of chemically sweetened tea.

They're not as good as you. Nor will they ever be. It is my lot. My penance for our previous overindulgences in your brown oozy goodness.

It will pass. Like a really difficult poo. Eventually. If we're patient.

Until then, we must accept the situation we find ourself in. Please stop calling me. Allow me to mourn your passing like a 12-inch pepperoni pizza with pineapple and anchovies, 5 finger cream cake selections and custard doughnuts. Allow me to transition through the eating regieme I now must follow. Taunt me no more you sweet seductive Enchantress of Confection.

Fond regards,

Gnomepants.
 

22nd August 2016

(no subject) @ 06:30

Tags:

Poll #2052345 On the Buses

How old were you when you first caught a bus by yourself?

0-4 Years
0(0.0%)
5-10 Years
5(17.9%)
11-13 Years
7(25.0%)
14-16 Years
5(17.9%)
17-20 Years
0(0.0%)
20+
2(7.1%)
I have never caught a bus by myself
0(0.0%)
I live on a bus
0(0.0%)
I am allergic to buses
1(3.6%)
Buses offend me
1(3.6%)
Buses are against my religion
2(7.1%)
What is a bus?
0(0.0%)
I hate you Butler
2(7.1%)
Ooo Arfur
1(3.6%)
I am a bus
0(0.0%)
I have never caught a bus because I can't find the right bait
1(3.6%)
I have never caught a bus because I can never find a net big enough
1(3.6%)
 

3rd June 2016

Richard Harris @ 18:56

Much like my recent revelation that Facebook is the natural evolutionary descendant of AOL and Compuserve style web portals, I was struck today with a thought about the impending EU referendum facing the UK in the next few weeks.

While using all my journalistic skills to not allude to which way I feel the referendum should go, I realised that the last time Britain was in a similar situation was when old Olly Cromwell convinced the country that regicide was the way forward for a better Britain. Although the concept of a British republic appeals to me (but only if we took the Leveller's approach), Cromwell's Britain, history tells us, was an unpleasant time with lots of people getting bumped off for being witches, some unfortunate destruction of castles and some nastiness for the Irish.

Now I'm not saying that we'll have an ancient monument destroying Irish persecuting witch burning time as a result of the outcome of the referendum but I can envisage a potentially awful period of history that could have similar catastrophic results.

I've never been more worried about a political choice decided by the public than this Referendum. Reflecting on the two previous referenda in the UK (the Scottish vote and the AV referendum, which I believe were trial runs) and the surprise result of the recent general election, I can't help feeling that insidious powers are at work to fudge the result to suit a cabal of nefarious ne'er do wells hell bent on a New World order, or an old one for that matter.
 

25th April 2016

Future @ 18:45

Some years back I went to see Tommy Steele at the Liverpool Empire with Previous-Mrs-Gnomepants, my mum and my dad. It was a Christmas present to my olds based on how much my mum liked Tommy Steele. During the show, this old geezer came on stage, sang a bit, then everyone clapped and we went home. I later found out that the old geezer was Tommy Steele.

Some years back I went to see the surviving members of Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall. I went on my own because Previous-Mrs-Gnomepants didn't like them. These old geezers came on stage. Tuned all the instruments, did a sound check by singing a bit, then  everyone clapped and went home. I later found out that the old geezers on stage were Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band.

Some years back I went to see Yes. Old geezers, on stage. Doing singing and being energetic. I knew they were Yes. I'd obsessed about them long enough.

Recently I have been writing my other blog, my Music Project (stegzysmusic) and listening to a whole load of bands and stuff. Some bands are goth, others metal and punk. I have been thinking of how the likes of Fields of Nephilim's Carl McCoy is now approaching his mid-fifties and it wont be too long before he reaches his sixties and beyond. I wonder, will he, when he is in his seventies (like Yes' Steve Howe) be performing Nephilim songs with his distinctive growls? How about those Scandenavian bands? Death growls aplenty. Will they too be performing late into their autumn years?

On Sunday, Zoe and I walked through Peasome Park in Scarborough and we saw a poster advertising a gig by Showaddywaddy. You might remember Showaddywaddy for their 1976 hit Under the Moon of Love, you might not. That aside, I related to the wife how I imagined some sixty pluser being quite excited at the prospect of seeing their performance:

Old dear Oooh I remember Showaddywaddy, their song wur playin' when I met your granddad. We danced and he kissed me.
Young grandchildAww that's nice gran


I then turned to a similar scenario forty years from now:

Futuristic Old dear Oooh I remember that Shakira, her song wur playin' when I met your granddad. We twerked, we went down an alley and had a shag, I didn't get his name
Young grandchildSTFU you old cow, I'm busy absorbing vacuous celebrity gossip through my nasal internet implant


I fear for the future of humanity.

 

21st April 2016


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